Not Enough Children
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Friday, June 8th, 2007I held you, mottled pink and silicon-fat arms. I gazed at you, with amazement and fright. I fed you, in the dark hours when the world had stopped except for us. I rocked you, when nothing else helped.
I changed you, picked up after you, I helped you to walk. I weaned you, I tickled you, I helped you to talk. I read you books, and again and again. I answered ‘what’s dat?’ and ‘why?’ and ‘but when?’
And each day passes and I realise: You’ve grown!
Now I teach you, though you don’t know it’s school. We play, because, well, why not? We read, because there are never enough books. We talk, because there are never enough questions. I save time to make time to spend it with you.
We dance, though we can’t and laugh, because it’s funny. And it’s hard to remember a time before you. (Though not impossible.)
Then evening comes and one by one you fall into my arms, your head on my shoulder, your hand stroking my skin. And I love you so much: more than anything.
That’s where my time has gone.
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Posted in Not Enough Children
Monday
Wednesday, September 6th, 2006Walking down the hill I feel his small hand tighten around mine. He looks at me with unshed tears in his eyes, his sombre face betraying his nervousness. ‘I’m really excited,’ he says looking down the long road. There is silence as we walk. I resist the urge to issue helpful instructions. The last week has been full of them.
‘Do I look smart?’ he whispers, looking up at me.
‘You look very smart, my big boy.’
As we go through the entrance he barely hesitates. ‘I remember the way,’ he calls out to me, ‘I’m a big boy now.’ His bravado makes me smile. So much has changed over the summer; he has shown me how much he can do and how much he can accomplish, will accomplish. For nearly five years I have taught him all I can, looked after him, loved him, loved him so much. I knew this day was coming but it feels as much a milestone for me as it is for him.
For today is just the beginning of my eldest son’s formal education. The start of the time when others will have as much influence on him as I do. He’s ready to be there. I’m ready for him to be there. But as I squeeze him tight I hear him whisper through his tears: ‘I’ll be okay, I’m a big boy now.’
So it seems so irrational that, as I walk away from school, I find myself whispering to him: But I don’t want to let you go.
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Posted in Not Enough Children
Family life
Tuesday, August 1st, 2006With a newborn in the house and two pre-schoolers thrown in on top, time is at a premium. Add in school holidays and ‘me’ time becomes almost non-existent. I have been blogging at one site or another for nearly two years now. My tagline for most of that time should have been “WATCH ME FALL APART!”. (IN CAPS! JUST FOR GOOD MEASURE!) During that time, writing has been a form of therapy. Writing has given me a little space to think my own thoughts. Writing has been a form of communication: as the months passed, odd mentions here and there meant I now have a lovely readership of non-blogging mothers in the UK as well as lots of great blogging friends from all round the globe. I correspond with many readers by e-mail, some regularly, some just now and again. Their friendship and support has become two-way.
Despite all these lovely people coming to my site every day, I have clearly been unable to write recently, swamped by the sheer work that goes with having a baby and then when I do get a spare moment I find I have become entirely inert through sleep-deprivation. Asleep over the keyboard. There are days when I feel like I am letting everyone down as I struggle to maintain a hold on my general pissiness and irritation. Then the day ends and I find no time to write, no time to paint my toenails, no time to read. These things are what define me (although maybe not the toenails so much).
So my need to write stuff has itself become another source of irritation and when Blogger decided not to accept comments, not to allow me access, not to publish my template ANYMORE I wondered if I should just write a Dear John post. But then at the end of a particularly bad day recently I received an e-mail (hi Sally!) which reminded me why I write here, why I write so much personal stuff about how I don’t quite cope, why I write it all knowing that people will think I am whining again and wondering if I give an even partly balanced view of family life, why I feel the need to put something out here even if it is just once a week and I don’t get to paint my nails instead:
I just wanted to send my sympathies for the difficult times you’ve been going through lately. The first year with a newborn is so very hard. I’m sure all of your kids think you are a wonderful mum even though you sometimes struggle with depression. Your story has been a bit of an inspiration to me. You want a big family so you soldier on despite the difficulties. It’s hard - sometimes almost unbearable - but it’s also worth it. Seeing that helped me decide to pursue my hope of having another child despite my fears. Even if I get post-partum depression again, at least I know enough now to recognize it. Plus, I now know that I don’t have to be a perfect mother to be a wonderful mother.
One sentence in particular struck me: “You want a big family so you soldier on despite the difficulties.” This really hit the nail on the head for me because I am clearly struggling a bit at the moment, six months into the desperately short, hopelessly interrupted nights that are the norm around here, and I have wondered why I want a big family, why I had another child when I struggled so badly last time (although of course I only have to think of Ben to know that it was absolutely the right decision), why I want another child when I was so sick with the last pregnancy and when I am so tired and short-tempered now. I wonder if my marriage will survive another child. But family life has a way of making all that worthwhile. I soldier on. It’s hard. But it’s all absolutely worth it.
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Posted in Not Enough Children, Post-Partum Depression
Hot summer days
Tuesday, July 25th, 2006The flies land randomly, lazily, on the dishes by the sink. The blinds shudder at the threat of a slight breeze. Outside, the stains on the drying laundry disappear under the fierce stare of the sun.
The baby feeds sleepily. The two older children sleep sweatily in their beds, worn out by the heat and by being three and four. The quiet, so rare in this house, feels so loud.
I work quickly, too busy really to savour the child-free moments, glad of the time to do just a few things.
But too quickly the baby wakes, sore with wind. And then the children are awake, more tired than when they went to sleep. The noise level rises with the temperature. Tempers fray. Damp heads clamour for attention, to be left alone, to be fed, to be three and four.
And I smile, because, actually, I missed it.
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Posted in Not Enough Children, Parenting
Out here
Thursday, July 13th, 2006
I’m walking through the fields, ripe with wheat, each step feeling a little lighter as I leave the long day behind. The baby, his skin enraged by eczema, sleeps his exhausted sleep so I sneak out, the golden fields beckoning me. The dogs race ahead of me, behind me, startling birds and rabbits. The cool evening sun - just a bit too cool - quickens my pace and with it I feel a burst of energy.
Away from the house I look back, thinking of my family inside. I can think objectively out here, remembering how lucky I am, how much I wanted children, marriage, family life, how life is exactly how I wanted it. I can forget momentarily the concertina of tantrums thrown by the older two only a few minutes earlier. I can feel the weight of the baby lifting literally and figuratively from my shoulders with every step. I can put aside for a minute the long list of chores yet to be done.
Golden fields. Out here the world seems a little bit larger, a little more in perspective. And that can only be a good thing.
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Posted in Not Enough Children, Playtime
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